Nothing But An Exit Wound
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: The Cuban beach and afterward, the tormented and angsty thoughts of Charles Xavier regarding his injury and Erik Lehnsherr, a man he loves. .:. inspired by the song 'Exit Wounds' by The Script, but not a songfic. Charles/Erik. rated for cursing.


**A/N: As requested by anivee on Tumblr. They wanted me to do an angsty!Charles fic with the prompt of the song 'Exit Wounds' by The Script, which is probably the best-fitting song beach/post-beach scene of First Class for Charles' POV I have ever heard in my life.**

**So here, have some angsty Cherik! ;D**

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><p>I kiss Raven's gloved hand. I feel disconnected; if I thought feeling Shaw's death firsthand was bad, then this is the worst.<p>

I touch Raven's hair; and I never thought so before, but her natural form actually is very stunning. Her features are the same, her there is a metallic sheen to her skin, and the scales on her cheekbones and jaw are actually quite lovely, and her hair is perfectly textured, even through my own gloved hand.

I wish the best for her. I can hear her thoughts, feel her dread and regret and guilt, and I try to ease it by telling her to go with Erik, because it's what she wants.

Little does she know, it's what I want, too. I want to go with him or beg him to stay, but I'm numb and rooted to the ground for more reasons than one.

As she leaves, the pain sinks in. So much pain that I can't handle it; it's different than the entry of the bullet into my back; that had been painful, yes; searingly so. It had been like a harpoon piercing my flesh, digging sharp and cruel and deep, gutting me from the inside, too deep to touch. The surging waves of electrifying pain that had coursed down my legs and up my spine had been enough to strike me to the ground, screaming.

And when the bullet was removed… it was like a little driller mole, digging its way out of its burrow. I could feel each bump and nick, and finally, when it fell out into what I assume was Erik's hand, it was like a plug being pulled in an old-fashioned bathtub; except, instead of fluids draining inward, they erupted outward, and I could feel the heat of my own blood flow down the hole in my suit onto bare skin, and I could feel the same precious body fluids leaking out into the sand, mixing and pooling beneath me.

When Erik held me… I felt too much. My sensories were on over-load; there was the raw, jagged, stinging, throbbing pain in my back, yes, but there was also the soothing feeling of Erik's hands on my neck and chest, and the concern in his gaze, and the tears brimming his eyes, and then, telepathically, all of his frantic thoughts and rushed feelings mingling with my own internal dilemmas, a battle of logic and pain and articulation and emotion.

But now, he's gone. The beach is flooded with death: the death of a team, the death of an enemy, the death of a relationship.

This last one hurts me the most.

But what bothers me is the way it happened: unceremoniously, abruptly, and with too much heartache to be stable or definite. Some might think this lack of definitive outcome to be a hopeful thing, but I know better. I know what it will mean.

Instead, I feel a blinding flash of sunlight, of scorching pain, and then… nothing. I gasp, grunt, stutter, and try to find my voice. Hank, technically a doctor of sorts (but truly, he is a scientist, just as I am not a scientist, I am a professor), tells me not to move.

I lick my parched lips. The sun is too hot, this suit too clammy with sweat and blood, and I can feel my energy draining for more reasons that my physical condition. I try not to cry.

"No, I… I ca— I…" I couldn't move if I wanted to. My legs… they were tingling painfully before, like pins and needles as large as pencils prickling and piercing deeper than only my skin, and now… I feel nothing. Like lead on my legs, and even the lower parts of my rear. It's as if some string of nerves from my spine to my legs was severed, and now there is nothing but weight. "I can't feel my legs," I croak desperately. "I can't feel my legs. I c-can't feel my legs. I can't feel…"

I shudder and collapse, fainting. I don't know how we got home; the CIA? The Marines?

…It doesn't matter.

I only know that, when I wake in the hospital, I'm told that I am paralyzed. The shock is more bracing than the news that trigger it. I can scarcely blink, let alone speak. I open and close my mouth many times. Moira is by my side, gripping my hand, and for a moment, I think the doctor might be lying, because I can't feel my hand, either.

Finally, Moira speaks for me, thanking the doctor and asking him for a moment alone. He nods, leaves, and my wide eyes seek hers.

I want to know why she fired at Erik. Did she plan to distract him so he would drop the missiles? Did she plan on killing him? What did she think she could possibly do, when he is more than capable of deflecting the bullets?

Part of me wants to blame her, as Erik had. But I know it would be wrong to, so I swallow and tell her to take the doctor's lead and leave me. She looks torn and questioning, but bless her that she only nods and obeys.

I can feel my reproductive organs, at the very least. But as I reach down to touch my thigh, I feel one side of the touch, and not both. My hand feels the skin there, cool and dry from days without lotion, but my leg can't feel my hand. The nerves are dead, or the is connection lost. Either way, it's an odd thing to feel, and I quickly withdraw my hand.

And this time, I don't withhold the tears that pour down my face in thick, hot trails, my nose instantly clogged and my forehead burning. I drop my face into my hands and heave broken sobs.

I lost so much in one day, one hour. My legs. My sister. My government career, as minimal as it was. My closest, dearest friend (and yes, all right, I will admit that I loved him; loved him more than I should have, so much so that I would be paralyzed all over again if it meant preserving his life, because my love for him is a romantic one, a brotherly one, a friendly one, a powerful one).

I shiver, sigh, and lie down. I succumb to sleep, because it's the only thing that eases the ache in my breast and allows me to forget my lack of mobility.

…When I return home, I have a wheelchair waiting for me, one Hank, Alex, and Sean all worked to build for me. Hank, the brain, designed it, and the other two boys assisted him with their brawn. The wheels cross with an X, for my last name. Clever. Personal. I smile at them, thank them, and ask Moira to look up and call someone to build an elevator in each of the four corners of the mansion. I will need them, because ramps on stairs like mine are impossible and a bit dangerous. (And besides, I had been meaning to craft an elevator in this house anyhow, and this is a good a time as any.)

I find that I am beginning to resent having Moira around. She makes me think too much of Erik with her sideways glances and warm smiles and lingering touches, just like his had been. And what's more, she isn't a mutant; she can't stay here. She has a job, too, so one day, as she's walking me around the grounds, I kiss her to distract her while I wipe her memory clean.

Alex takes her back to her governmental agents, her people, while Hank sits down with me, blue fur ruffled, and asks why I'm doing this, why I'm pushing her away when she could help.

"It's not her place to," I say simply, but he sees through me. He removes his glasses and cleans them on his open white scrubs.

"Charles, I can be oblivious to things. I can be shy about others. But right now, I'm going to be bold on the topic, and I'm pretty sure I've picked up on it correctly: you miss Erik, don't you?"

His golden gaze is very understanding, very calm, and very undeserved. I shouldn't have a gaze like that directed at me, the way I am. I look away, and, dammit, here come the water-works.

"…Charles, it's all right. You can tell me," Hank says softly, and a paw reaches out to touch my knee. I don't feel it, only see it. The heat is barely there, or imagined. I swallow hard. He goes on in a softer tone than before, "Did you love him?"

He knows. He must have seen how broken I've been, pieces barely strung together, holding on by the thinnest layer of glue. My hands tremble, fingertips chilled, as I move them to grip Hank's furry one, the pads of his palm like leather, but warm and comforting. I exhale slowly.

"I miss him so much, Hank. I knew him better than I knew myself, I've been in his head so many times. But even then, I hadn't seen this coming. I knew we were risking more than we even possessed by going into that conflict; I knew, but I never thought…" and I drift off, bititng my lip. _I never thought he'd leave me._

Hank moves forward and awkwardly bends over to wrap his arms around my shoulders and pat my back, my face pressed up against the white cloth — smelling chemical and sterile — on the leftmost part of his chest. I don't cry.

"It's okay, it's okay," he repeats quietly, hushed because I am groaning in a sort of lament, not understanding why I can't cease the sounds emitting from my throat. I grip the sleeves of his arms tightly and try to block out the thoughts.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. He and I aren't very close, but we're the closest of everyone left, and in this moment, we are getting closer. But as good of a friend as Hank is, he doesn't know how terribly it wounds me; he can't feel the tugs like claws trying to gouge out my heart with every beat I spend thinking of Erik fucking Lehnsherr, and he can't know how desperately I search for Erik's mind each and every night before I sleep, hoping to catch him without that bloody helmet on, hoping that he's near enough to find. And I apologize because I can't expect him to know all this, nor can I believe I am breaking down in front of him and burdening him with my woes.

But Hank doesn't seem to mind. He continues to shush me gently, rubbing my back where I lean into him, and he feels like a living stuffed animal, like the giant ones I would win for Raven at the carnival when it came to town every summer when we were children.

I let out a low, breathless howl, because I miss her, too. But nothing can compare to the damaged goods I have become because of Erik. No one will want me, now; even Moira, as infatuated with me as I know she was (it was plainly written on her face; I hardly needed to check by delving into her mind), she would have left eventually because something like this would have happened in front of her, and she would have gotten jealous and angry and stormed out.

Hank pulls away and offers to make me tea. I nod numbly, face oddly dry, and he leaves the room to make it.

Forlornly, I move my chair over to the window and peer out it at the setting sun. It's nearly dusk, but some orange and pink is left on the horizon. It's beautiful. It shames me.

I have a terrible feeling that Erik doesn't miss me an eighth as much as I miss him. I need him, but he never needed me. Erik is independent and strong and calloused, and I am soft and co-dependent and frail.

But he could never tell. To him, I must have seemed fine, because he wouldn't have left if he thought I needed protecting, would he have? He wouldn't have left if he knew I would be paralyzed, right? He wouldn't have left if he would miss me as intensely as I miss him, surely?

But he did leave. And he will never come back. I will see him, and he will see me at some point in the future, I know, but we will be on opposite sides by then, and technically nemeses. But I will still love him, and he will most likely call me an old friend out of respect for our past.

I thought I felt his love, though. I thought I felt fondness, I thought I felt how he looked up to my optimism. I thought I felt how amused and charmed he was by me, and I'm sure he enjoyed my company.

But not enough of any of that to stay. Never enough to love me as wholly as I loved — _still love _— him.

Why, Erik? Why did things have to end this way? All I am now is a shamble of my former self, a lie and a shell and a mess. And I want to blame you to help me move on, but I can't. I can't hate you, can't blame you, can't stand the thought of disregarding you.

I will never let go. I will only forgive and pray silently that something changes in the near future, for my sanity's sake.

Hank returns, finding me weeping at the window, and hands me my tea, made just the way you like it, Erik: bitter, natural, over-steeped. Because it's something to remind me of you.

Come back to me, Erik. Without you, I am nothing but an exit wound.


End file.
